


Escaping the Delta Trap

by BlushingNewb



Series: All About Chemistry [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Science, Fluff and Angst, For Science!, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Touching, Poor John, Prompt Fill, Romance, Sex Pollen, Sherlock Being an Idiot, well-timed rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompting Meme Fill! </p><p>Following a case, Sherlock has been inspired to try his hand at pheromone synthesis. In order to determine its effectiveness on others, he uses it on an unwitting John. Sherlock should have known better...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping the Delta Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpt from the Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme (link below):
> 
> So Sherlock has discovered/invented a pheromone or drug or plant or whatever that causes the person who drinks/inhales/consumes it to become irresistible to potential mates. He decides to try it on John...
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=127518401#t127518401
> 
> Please heed the warnings! The Johnlock is not dubcon but there is a dubious pairing of minor characters. They'll work it out but that part is not shown here (see the endnotes). The rest of it is rather fluffy. I love comments, kudos, concrit, anything - thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock looked forward to serial killers but was always disappointed once they’d been nabbed. It was like opening that final present at Christmas and realizing that there would be no more until the following year. Even the promise of an eventual birthday wasn’t consolation enough for that overwhelming sense of disappointment, the conclusion of something so grand and glorious. 

Nothing good could last…or so it seemed. 

Taking down the mad entomologist of Bromley was the most fun Sherlock and John had had in months. Dr. Alec Hanstable was a highly renowned insect specialist who also had a talent for chemistry. His world had begun to unravel when he discovered that his twenty-five year old wife was having an affair with his colleague, Dr. Ruth Turner. The professor presented both victims with a gift scarf that had been saturated in a liquid solution of bee alarm pheromones. The pheromones triggered an aggressive response when inhaled, and, when the two women coyly wore the twin scarves out for one of their clandestine meetings, they quite literally tore one another apart. 

The police had seized all the case evidence, including the scarves, pheromone solute and laboratory notes. Most unfortunately, Scotland Yard had not seized the Mind Palace of one Sherlock Holmes. In the laboratory of his Mind Palace there was a glass jar stored atop a high shelf. Because Sherlock had a sense of humor – albeit twisted – this glass jar had holes poked in it. It was the contents of this jar that would indirectly lead to many regrets on a steamy day in July…and one celebration a day after that. 

* * *

A post-case Sherlock was almost always a bored Sherlock, which usually rated a level 10 on the Watson Irritant Scale. John’s technique for handling these situations involved a blend of MSG-laden food, submission to multiple sessions of Cluedo and, one time, the development of a grocery store scavenger hunt where prizes were awarded in the form of high-tar cigarettes. John had especially congratulated himself on the creation of this last activity. He had used a combination of popular song lyrics, lines from the _Poetic Edda_ and Internet meme references to create a shopping list for Sherlock. When Sherlock returned to the flat after thirty minutes with milk, bread, honey and other sundries, John had been happy to give him two cigarettes for his trouble. It was a far cheaper solution than ammunition for the Sig. 

John was used to these Sherlockian supernovas and subsequent black holes. He was proud to be the rare particle that escaped from the usual celestial terror, flitting about the universe as future star material. It was his role in their friendship to survive the implosion and prepare for the next astrological wonder. 

But after the conclusion of what John termed “The Case of Honeyed Revenge,” a broadly beaming Sherlock had simply hailed a cab for St. Bart’s. He fairly vibrated with energy, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot. John eyed his lunatic carefully. He thought that this behavior would not bode well for anyone, but most probably him.

“Sherlock…are we going out to eat?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Food, Sherlock. You solved the case.” 

“Yes, so we did then,” he agreed amiably, staring out the window. 

“Okay…so what’s at Bart’s?” 

“Research, John.” 

John frowned. The two-word answer put a clamp on any further conversation, but John was the world’s leading translator in the language of Consulting Detective. The word “research” meant that Sherlock was about to embark on a series of esoteric and dangerous experiments that might have little relative worth to the world of criminal justice. 

“No.” 

“I do not believe that I asked for your consent,” Sherlock responded frostily. 

John smiled pleasantly back at him and cracked a knuckle. 

“Food first,” he said in a friendly tone. “Sleep would be good, too, but I suppose that if it’s a toss-up, you need the food more. Now…Chinese or Indian?” 

Before he could help himself, Sherlock blurted out, 

“Indian.” 

Sherlock huffed and clenched his jaw tightly. He hadn’t intended to delay his trip to Bart’s at all, but somehow the doctor had shifted the ground in his favour. As John leaned forward and directed the cabbie to one of their favorite haunts, Sherlock thought darkly of all the doctor’s distinguishing faults in retribution. Sentimental. Tendency to sigh deeply instead of snore while napping during _Top Gear_. Sighs were punctuated with small, sweet noises of contentment. Brown shoes worn more on the inner soles. Horrid habit of wrapping one callused forefinger around mug while reading the paper. Sucked thumb into delectable mouth after accidentally smearing it with jam. Digit reappeared from mouth with soft popping noise that reverberated in kitchen. Clothed self in awful jumpers that smelled appealingly of gun oil, boiled wool and warm skin. Had an unspoken affinity for the colour red that was deduced after a glimpse at the hamper. One corner of thin mouth went up crookedly and foot tapped when listening to Mozart’s “Sonata in E-Flat” on Sherlock’s violin. Ears turned pink and pupils dilated when Sherlock played Sarasate’s “Melodie Roumaine.” As well they should. 

 _Damn._  

He’d actually thought that last part, hadn’t he? 

In a resounding affirmative, his consciousness quickly brought forth images from other times when his doctor’s pulse had throbbed in his throat and his respiration had increased as he looked at Sherlock. Times after a chase when they had laughed together, doubled over, hands pressed to their chests, gasping. John had almost reached for him once, but then pulled his hand away as if burned. He shrugged it off and coughed exaggeratedly, but Sherlock saw. He wondered if John saw him watching. He hoped he did. 

Sherlock ate his curry resentfully and with bitterness. His focus on the fascinating chemical formula in his mind was intermixed with _feelings_ (ugh!) of confusion and arousal. John watched him with trepidation but he let Sherlock eat in silence. It was the strangest post-case celebration they had ever had, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from taking a separate cab to Bart’s afterward. 

* * *

A ballistic ex-army doctor shouted Sherlock back to the flat eighteen hours after he began his experiment. Sherlock willingly left at the time, though; the formula was assembled but needed time to mature. The important work had been completed – he had successfully reproduced the solute of alarm pheromones. He consented under duress to lie on the sofa with his eyes closed and woke up eight hours later to a hot cup of tea. 

As he blew over the steaming liquid, he realized that he could do better. A concoction of aggression pheromones would merely yield the same results as they had for Dr. Hanstable. Repetition was boring. 

A skilled chemist, such as himself, Sherlock thought, could easily synthesize an entirely different and new blend of artificial pheromones. 

And if the fruits of his labour produced a complete and total lack of murder, well then, that was clearly in the best interests of everyone. 

* * *

Several weeks after the incarceration of Dr. Hanstable, Sherlock was still spending the majority of his non-investigative time at Bart’s. He continued to respond enthusiastically to mysterious crimes, but the rest of his time was spent at the hospital. When he came back to the flat at all, it was to work furiously on his computer or to peer into his microscope. The kitchen table became piled with a stack of scribblings, which, when John investigated, appeared to be molecular diagrams. Sherlock didn’t even summon the energy to bicker with John when he plied him with food – he silently accepted the nutrition and waved him away with a hand. 

This series of events went on until a hot afternoon in July, when Sherlock burst back into the flat with a broad smile on his face. He was carrying a smart leather messenger bag with him and he looked so radiantly happy that John forgot to breathe for a moment. Because of the weather, Sherlock had forgone a jacket and wore only a white-on-white striped shirt with black trousers. John tried to avoid looking at the area where the shirt stretched across his chest, at the pale skin exposed below his throat. Sherlock’s cheeks were flatteringly flushed and John felt himself growing warmer in response to something other than the weather. 

“Ah, John, most satisfactory.” 

For one mad second, John thought he was talking about him. 

“Yes, Sherlock? Got everything all sorted at the lab, then?” 

“Definitely. I think I’ve made a real breakthrough.” 

“Well…you up for dinner tonight? It’s been weeks since we’ve gone out and had a proper meal. We could celebrate your breakthrough and you could tell me about it.” 

Sherlock stared into space, crooking his head slightly. Finally, he nodded. 

“Yes, I think dinner would be beneficial. First, though, I’m going to take a shower.” 

He went straight from the sitting room into their bathroom, still carrying the messenger bag. 

* * *

The following morning John woke up feeling fully rested for the first time in weeks. He had faint memories of a vaguely erotic dream featuring a certain tall, pale, dark-haired man in a white shirt, but he shrugged them off, as was his custom. They had dined at Angelo’s the night before and Sherlock had been in high spirits. He explained that he had been trying to determine if Dr. Hanstable’s solution could be synthesized by using hormones from a different species of bee. John knew from previous discussion that Sherlock was fascinated by anything having to do with bees, and he felt even better about the detective’s obsessive behavior since the conclusion of the case. 

There was a sharp rap at his door. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” 

“John, I wondered if you would accompany me to Bart’s? Molly said there was a body she wanted me to look at and I wanted your opinion.” 

“ ‘Course. I need a wash, though. Do we have time?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

* * *

The ride to Bart’s was uneventful but Sherlock seemed more preoccupied than usual. As the two men walked down the corridor to the mortuary they passed a nurse technician pushing a cart. They continued on, but the tech suddenly caught back up with them, holding out a hand to John. 

“Hello, I’m Kevin, it’s great to meet you.” 

He was a pale and freckled man in his late twenties. Kevin ran a hand through his ginger hair and giggled. John felt completely out of his element but shook his hand anyway. 

“Er, yes, I guess it’s good to meet you, too. This is my flatmate, Sherlock…” 

“Yes, John, thank you for the introduction, but we must be going now, body to see, investigation to conduct,” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders. 

The nurse tech looked crestfallen. Still holding John’s hand, he looked longingly into John’s eyes and licked his lips.

“Are you sure you have to go? I mean, let me at least give you my number,” he pulled his hand away from John and snatched up a scrap of paper from the cart, scribbling furiously. 

Sherlock guided John away from the man, but it didn’t deter him from crushing the paper into John’s pocket anyway. Kevin tittered and clutched one hand to his chest as they walked quickly toward the morgue. 

Aghast, John whispered to Sherlock, 

“What the hell was that? What is going on?” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. 

“I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps you should give him a call later and ask him?” 

“Er, not really keen on becoming acquainted with strange men who hang around mortuaries.” 

“Worked out well for us, didn’t it?”

For a reason he wouldn’t be able to explain with any eloquence, John blushed up to his ears. Sherlock smirked to himself as they pushed open the doors of the morgue. 

The strangest day of John Watson’s life had only just begun. 

* * *

Clinical Trial 1. First-in-man study

Primary objective: determine whether mechanism of inhaling pheromones functions irrespective of type. Alarm pheromones have been replaced with sex pheromones, which should induce no homicidal rages and are therefore safer for experimental purposes. 

Secondary objective: determine effectiveness of chemical composition #6, ie.,synthesized sex pheromones derived from the _Bicyclus anynana_ on random survey of human subjects. 

Method of dissemination: inhalation from dermis of JHW, see details of baseline chemical composition – Dr. Hanstable. 

Conditions: JHW, single 38-year-old male, bisexual. Medical doctor, former RAMC captain. Self-administered pheromone solute through use of typical grooming products. 

Precautions: use of menthol salve under nostrils, obvious and superior foreknowledge of affects of sex pheromones.

* * *

Subject 1 – 10:02 am, St. Bart’s Hospital corridor 

30-year-old single male, homosexual, “Kevin,” previously unknown to JHW. Nurse technician. Approached JHW and demonstrated following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

-increased respiration

-hand tremors

-moistening of own erogenous zone (ie, lips)

-multiple attempts to touch JHW

-distributed contact information to JHW 

Notes: JHW not interested in subject. Demonstrated confusion and skepticism. Allowed me to steer him away from subject. 

Commentary: “What the hell was that? What is going on?”

* * *

Subject 2 – 10:16 am, St. Bart’s Hospital morgue

28-year-old single female, heterosexual, “Molly Hooper,” known to JHW professionally. Pathologist. Spoke to myself and JHW and followed JHW out from mortuary all the way to cab upon departure. Subject 2 demonstrated following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

-dilated pupils

-touching of own lips

-inserted finger into own mouth while maintaining eye contact

-ran fingers into own scalp, shook hair

-voice deepened when speaking to JHW

-repeated JHW’s name frequently

-stroked finger up JHW’s bare forearm while maintaining eye contact

-invited JHW to lunch in her office

-blinked rapidly and frequently 

Notes: increased time in JHW’s presence contributes to increased signs of arousal in subjects. Blood rushed to JHW’s cheeks as subject touched him – embarrassment or arousal? If so, why? JHW replied with non-related responses and excuses to subject’s queries and invitations, finally stating that he forgot something back at the flat. 

Commentary: “Um, Sherlock, is she taking the piss? What was that? Seriously? She’s always been interested in you, right? At least you’re normal this morning. I might want to hit the pub for lunch at this rate.” 

* * *

Subject 3 – 10:49 am, in transit to New Scotland Yard (cab) 

47-year-old married female, heterosexual, “Daria,” previously unknown to JHW. Cab driver. Struck up conversation with JHW two minutes after we entered the cab. Began with introductory questions and within five more minutes detailed the location of a vacant lot. Explained that she could take me to my destination and then take John “for a ride.” Subject 3 demonstrated the following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

-dilated pupils

-increased body temperature (fanned self with hand)

-described compliments current husband gives her on “oral technique” 

Notes: Blood that was already present in JHW’s cheeks remained and spread to ears. Embarrassment or arousal? Is he enjoying this? JHW stared open-mouthed as Subject 3 described sexual acts, and finally dismissed her. Dismissed Subject 3 because inhibited by my presence? Would JHW consider offers otherwise? 

Commentary: “Thank you, that’s enough, I’m not interested, I swear, thank you, just get us where we’re paying you to take us!” 

Later, upon exiting the cab: “The fuck? Please tell me we can just get in and out of here quickly. I’m this close to walking back to the flat and drinking a fifth of Bourbon. What else can go wrong?” 

* * *

Subject 4 – 11:02 am, New Scotland Yard, lift to floor 11 

26-year-old single male, bisexual, “Alex,” previously known to JHW in a minor professional capacity. Police officer. Rode with us in lift and deviously complimented JHW on appearance. Feigned an “ongoing” interest in “getting to know each other better” after discussing latest West Ham match. Subject 4 demonstrated the following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

-rubbing fingers together in a licentious manner (sweating palms?)

-ran tongue disgustingly over teeth when not speaking

-lowered eyelids while looking at JHW

-stepped into JHW’s personal space

-touched JHW’s shoulder while maintaining eye contact 

Notes: JHW allowed subject 4 to touch him and licked his own lips appealingly at compliment to his appearance. Probably on purpose. JHW did not schedule a meeting with subject 4 but did not dismiss this possibility in the future. Unacceptable. Directed JHW to Lestrade’s office in order not to invalidate results of experiment further. 

Commentary: “Well, I’ll…thanks. Er, that’s very kind of you, mate. Sherlock, quit pulling! Sherlock, ow, okay, damn! I’ll see you another time, Alex, I guess! Sure, soon, why not?” 

* * *

By the time he and Sherlock reached the eleventh floor, John was hopelessly confused. He was experienced in the ways of romance; a man who was popular with the ladies and the gents on three different continents could hardly be described as uncomfortable with his own sexuality. However, this morning’s onslaught was unprecedented. “Three-Continents” Watson relied upon his congenial personality to open the way to greater intimacy, and after the first time in the bedroom he was always invited back for a repeat performance. But John had never in his life been solicited for sex like he had this morning. He was starting to wonder if Sherlock was running some sort of experiment on him. He wouldn’t put it past the man. Perhaps Sherlock had paid people off and was taking data on John’s responses to remedy his boredom. 

Sherlock looked increasingly perturbed, though. His experiments typically put him in a more benevolent mood, but today he was glaring at people with more than his usual hostility. He hovered over his phone almost possessively, typing frantically with only the briefest of pauses. When John spoke with Alex (who really seemed quite pleasant – maybe John should ring him up, he would be the first bloke in quite a while, it’s not as if another fellow was interested) Sherlock scowled and huffed impatiently. Finally, Sherlock jerked him away into the hallway, almost propelling him in front of him to the offices. Another police officer pushed open a door in front of them, and Sherlock crashed into John’s back as he halted. The heat of Sherlock’s body startled John. He realized that Sherlock was perspiring heavily; his shirt was sticking to him. Once the officer had moved, Sherlock pushed John through the open doorway. 

“Oi, watch it!” 

“Oh, just move already. Or are you too busy fantasizing to keep your mind on such a simple task as walking through a hallway?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re on about. Weirdest bloody morning I’ve ever had, I’m just trying to survive here. Even you’re getting all out of sorts.”

Sherlock sniffed deprecatingly and bypassed him to Lestrade’s office. 

* * *

They were in the office for less than five minutes. Lestrade looked increasingly glassy-eyed as the discussion turned to some evidence that currently defied categorization. He asked for them to accompany he and Donovan down to the fifth floor, and they left the office together. Lestrade blinked rapidly and ran a hand through his silver hair. Donovan greeted Sherlock with her usual aplomb -“Freak” - and ignored John. 

But as they entered the lift, Donovan turned to John and curled her lips up in a smile. She was actually quite pretty when her face wasn’t twisted in disgust.

“Dr. Watson…John… how have you been lately? We saw you just last week, yeah?” she punctuated this remark with a poke into Lestrade’s arm. Lestrade broke out of his reverie and answered thickly, 

“Yeah, yeah. I think he looks good, too.” 

“What are you talking about, Greg?” John was at sea once again and a growing unease began to rise from his stomach. Anytime now someone was going to shout “Surprise!” and show John videos of all the morning’s horrors, which now included this gem of a conversation. 

Suddenly the lift jolted to a halt. Sherlock groaned in frustration and jammed his finger onto the emergency button repeatedly. He then wiped a hand down his face and looked at his own fingers in horror. John eyes darted around in desperation and he tried for humor. 

“Sure is warm enough already. You don’t think we’ll be stuck here too long, do you? There’s no air in here. I’m already melting as it is. You, too, eh, Sherlock?” 

“Er, yeah. Yes, very warm today, very unusual,” he tried to pace, but in the small space he simply spun to face the back of the lift. 

John looked up at the ceiling, trying to avoid the eyes that he felt on the side of his neck. Lestrade cleared his throat, and John finally glanced over. Donovan and Lestrade had, perhaps unconsciously (perhaps not?) crowded together and were staring hungrily at John. He swallowed and turned his attention back to the floor. He willed for the lift to start up again, for a rescue from above, _anything_. He would settle for a doorway into the sixth dimension at this point. The air was completely still and John felt several droplets of sweat trickle down his spine. 

He heard whispers – now Donovan had her hands cupped around Lestrade’s ear – and Lestrade let out a low, sinister laugh. Sherlock had put his head up against the back wall of the lift and was tugging at his own hair, muttering to himself. 

Donovan took two steps forward and ran her fingers up John’s back. She paused at his neck and gently scraped her fingernails against his scalp, teasing the sensitive follicles. 

“Uh…Sally, I don’t…” 

“Shh, John, it’s ok. It’s even better here….God, you just…” 

She buried her face in his neck and breathed in sharply. 

“You smell incredible, John, I can’t wait…” 

She licked a line up from his collar to his ear and then pulled his lobe into her mouth, sucking and moaning. John wasn’t going to deny that the sensations were appealing to him but the situation was not of his choosing and neither was the woman. 

“Um, no, I don’t want…” 

“Oh, but we do, John,” said Lestrade, who came around to grab John’s other arm. Donovan continued kissing and breathing on his neck, and he felt fingers at his chest undoing his shirt buttons. John started to panic. Lestrade stroked his left hand along John’s cheek. 

“John, you’re amazing. We’re going to make you feel so good…” 

The fingers had made it past the third button of John’s shirt, and still more fingers dipped below the collar of his t-shirt to trace lines along his bare chest. Lestrade reached down and squeezed John’s arse. He yelped and struggled in their arms, trying to break their concentration, but they both clamped down around him, hard. This was going to go very badly in a very short amount of time. He was seconds away from being forced to hurt them both before this went any farther. One last chance for peace. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock turned to face him and John’s mouth fell open. He had never seen his friend look at him like this. His face was mottled with red and sweat had beaded up on his forehead. John could not remember a time when his eyes hadn’t been sharp and piercing; now they were unfocused and Sherlock’s pupils expanded as he met John’s eyes. He was biting his bottom lip, worrying it with his teeth. John squirmed and whispered at him frantically, 

“Do something!” 

His friend swallowed hard and took a deep breath. 

“Lestrade, Donovan, get off him!” 

He planted a hand on either side of John’s shoulders. The unexpected movement jolted the other two and Sherlock, taking advantage of their loosened grip, pulled John to him. Lestrade and Donovan fell onto each other into the space left by John and collapsed to the floor of the elevator. John rested his head against Sherlock, restraining an urge to kiss the skin exposed by his gaping collar. 

“He’s mine. Feel free to carry on without him, though.” 

Sally pouted. 

“Of course Freak doesn’t want to share. Lestrade, make him give John back. He’ll like us better.” 

John looked behind him, safe in Sherlock’s arms. Lestrade’s eyes were hooded and he leaned into Sally. He hovered his mouth over her face. 

“Oh, my God, you smell wonderful, Sally, you smell like…” 

“Yes, you do, too….” 

They slammed their mouths into each other, kissing and moaning. John took this opportune time to turn his head away from the drama on the floor. He tried to tune out the vivid sounds of groping, sucking, grinding and unfastening by pressing his forehead to the bared flesh of Sherlock’s chest. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Sherlock tightened his arms around John’s back in a vise and pressed himself up against him. John involuntarily let a groan escape. 

Sherlock was rock hard against his hips. 

John’s brain went on holiday for an indeterminate amount of time. A myriad of emotions conspired to send home postcards, and amongst some of their messages were hope, joy, fear, longing and love. 

“Don’t move again. Just…don’t, John…” 

Sherlock panted above his head and continued to hold John with an almost-iron grip. Sherlock seemed absolutely petrified. He trembled and began reciting the elements of the periodic table. 

By the time Sherlock reached polonium, the lift started up again. It stopped at the fifth floor, and Sherlock pushed John away from him roughly. He ran for the stairwell and John followed behind him. He was still trying to clear away the sight of a partially clothed Lestrade and Donovan entangled on the floor when they reached the street. A cab pulled up, but Sherlock held up a hand. 

“No, John, take a separate cab,” Sherlock said tersely. 

“What? Why?” 

“Just do as I ask!” he shouted at John. He pulled out some notes from his pocket and threw them at him. 

As the cab pulled away, John looked down at the money on the ground. His friend’s behavior had finally shed sufficient light onto the nasty, dark suspicion that had been growing since they left the hospital. He picked up the notes and added a few of his own. 

To the next cabbie that arrived, he said, 

“I’ll give you a fifty percent tip if you can get me to 221B Baker Street as soon as possible.” 

* * *

Subjects 5 & 6, 11:30-11:52 am, New Scotland Yard lift 

Subject 5 – 32-year-old single female heterosexual, “Sally Donovan,” police sergeant, well known to JHW professionally. Subject 5 demonstrated the following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

\- physically accosted JHW

\- pupils dilated

\- voice pitch lowered

\- sweating (could also attribute to temperature) 

Commentary: “Sherlock!” 

Subject 6 – 45-year old divorced male heterosexual, “G. Lestrade,” detective inspector, known well to JHW professionally. Subject 6 demonstrated the following signs of arousal/sexual interest: 

\- assisted in physically accosting JHW with Subject 5

\- erection

\- sweating (see above notes)

\- pupils dilated 

Commentary: “Do something!” 

Notes: Subjects 5 & 6 molested JHW in close confinement. Lift stalled for inexplicable reasons for the duration of approximately ten minutes. To his credit, JHW demonstrated extreme reluctance to partake in sexual activities with subjects. 

* * *

Sherlock ran into the sitting room of 221B and ripped off his shirt. He felt like he was about to evaporate in a cloud of oxytocin. He had just tugged off his woolen trousers (those had been a mistake) when he heard the door slam downstairs. 

 _Oh, no. John._  

It was like pure, unadulterated sex walked into the room instead of the pleasant, unassuming doctor. The realization of every erotic fantasy Sherlock had ever entertained in the slightest (to be fair, John had a starring role in these for some time now) was striding into their flat on two legs. 

The defenses of Sherlock’s brain finally crumbled against the twin assault of adrenalin and cortisol and he crashed to the floor on his knees. He was desperately hard inside his briefs and he palmed himself, groaning. 

John stood stock-still and red-faced as he stared down at him. As he surveyed Sherlock’s bared form he licked his lips. Sherlock didn’t feel capable of movement, but when he looked back up at the object of his desire, as he _smelled_ him, he pulled himself out and stroked. 

So not good on so many levels. So very not good. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and ducked his head down, abashed but helpless. 

“You want to tell me? You going to tell me what the fuck you’ve done now? I know you did something, I know you wouldn’t really want…” 

John’s voice, his best friend’s voice, had cracked on that last word. Sherlock’s eyes flew open. John’s face was crumpled and his mouth was turned down at the corners. He held his clenched fists out in front of him. 

“I swear to God, Sherlock, you will tell me how to fix this – right goddamn now – or you can find yourself a new flatmate and good bloody luck with that.” 

Sherlock let out a moan that simultaneously expressed his pleasure and dismay at the disaster he had wrought. The words spilled out. 

“I’m sorry…never intended…wash yourself, use only my soap and shampoo…it’ll disperse once you clean your skin…oh, God…” 

It never felt this good when he touched himself or during those few times he had allowed someone else to touch him. The sensation of his fingers on his cock was incredible, unprecedented. He slipped the tip of one finger over his glans and hissed as heat spiraled down around his spinal column. 

There was nothing else for it. Grunting, he tightened his fingers around his shaft and quickened pace. Sparks shot through his sensory nerves and jolted up into his cerebellum. His vision went white and he let go all over the floor. 

Still covered in his own effluence nearly five minutes later, Sherlock belatedly realized that John had long ago left the room. His absence was a silent accusation, a voiceless cry of rage. It was deafening. 

* * *

Subject 7 – 12:19 pm, 221B Baker Street 

34-year-old male, homosexual, “Sherlock Holmes,” known to JHW in a professional and personal capacity as a friend. Consulting detective, only one in the world. 

Notes and Commentary: Menthol salve dissipated in face of extreme summer temperature. Strength of pheromone solution grossly underestimated. In common or vulgar parlance, situation normal all fucked up. JHW justifiably livid. 

Experiment concluded. Preliminary findings are…not good. 

* * *

“Don’t talk to me Sherlock, don’t come near me. There’s no excuse. I must be out of my mind for not just packing my bags with a fuck-you-very-much and faretheewell.” 

John sailed back into the sitting room, freshly showered and dressed, and fixed him with a stare. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled up under his chin. He had wrapped himself in a robe but his clothes still littered the floor. There was also a towel bunched up next to the clothing. Sherlock looked up at him. 

Sherlock’s forehead was creased and his mouth was clenched tight. His eyes were too shiny and John saw that there was anguish in the depths. Shame was written all over his face, and that alone had to be one of the wonders of the modern world. Sherlock Holmes was prouder than a prince of hell. 

John left, shamefacedness notwithstanding. It was either that or punch the madman’s teeth out. 

* * *

Clinical Trial #1 Summary

First-and-last in-man study 

Wednesday, July 18 

9:30 am – 12:30 am 

Six out of seven subjects in closest proximity to JHW were unaware of the presence of artificial sex pheromones on his dermis. All subjects responded to pheromones with a variety of physical arousal reactions. Olfactory absorption of sex pheromones occurred with 100% success at a distance of up to five meters. Exposure to sex pheromones for greater than five minutes at a time and in smaller spaces escalated rate of arousal reactions. Hypothesize (almost certain) that sweating, induced by increased temperature, allowed for additional and continuous release of pheromones. 

Special problem: JHW deduced existence of an experiment. Under duress I admitted the means to end the experiment. Should also be noted that I was unable to refrain from self-stimulation in JHW’s presence after enduring the pervasive influence of sex pheromone concentrate. To quote self, the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. 

The unintended results are most disconcerting. JHW angrier than I have ever seen him, and that includes my return and the Baskerville experiment. JHW’s presence in my Work and life is necessary. JHW is my friend. I would like to think that I am his friend, too. There are many times I have considered and desired an even closer relationship with JHW. As I reflect further, I realize that the actions of this morning cannot be construed in any way as friendly or trustworthy. The destruction I caused cannot be attributed to chemistry. 

I made a grievous error. Experiment invalid and unethical. Data and samples will be directed to an appropriate authority. Authority may see fit to use information as he so chooses. 

* * *

It was long after midnight when John returned to the flat. He had spent the afternoon and evening wandering through shops, lingering in cafes and finally, he contemplated the drama that his life had become over a pint. He had stared down into the amber liquid for hours, trying to get the arresting image of a starkly nude and deliciously erect Sherlock out of his head. He eventually abandoned the pub and the beer, which had long since grown warm. He wanted nothing so much as to sink into a deep sleep for a year until the memory of this horrible day had been eradicated. 

The flat was dark and Sherlock was nowhere in sight. John flicked on the kitchen lights. He could at least have a cuppa in peace. He paused, frowning at what was now illuminated in the kitchen. 

The mess on their table had been replaced with three neat stacks of papers and an assortment of random objects, including a group of small glass vials. Resting on top of the middle stack of paper was a thick ivory envelope. 

In the center of the envelope was John’s name, written out in Sherlock’s pinched scrawl. 

 _John,_

_By now you have correctly surmised that you were part of an experiment. I admit full culpability in its planning and execution. No doubt you recall the case involving the wife of Dr. Hanstable? He had achieved success in the olfactory transmission of synthetic alarm pheromones. I wished to build on that success but had no desire to use alarm pheromones. I resolved to determine if olfactory transmission of sex pheromones could occur with the same success._

_The answer is a resounding yes. I administered the sex pheromone solute to your grooming products. I needed the person who disseminated the pheromone to be unaware that they were doing so in order that they might not influence results._  

John snorted and slapped the letter down. He lifted it again to rip it in half, but then he noticed the papers underneath. They were the molecular diagrams he had seen before. He rippled the pages with his fingers and saw still more diagrams. There were typed research notes, beginning with today’s date and tracking backwards in time. There was a battered notebook held together with a rubber band, each leaf covered in an indecipherable script. Excel charts. Page after page of data from what John assumed was the experiment. Perched close to the table’s edge were an extracted hard drive, a book of matches and a bottle of lighter fluid. John surveyed the pile of objects on the table once more, and swallowing, picked up the note again. 

 _John, I apologise for using you. It is unworthy of the trust you have bestowed on me. You are the best friend I have ever had, and it is badly done of me to treat you so. I confess that for some time now I have been deeply interested in expanding our friendship. I realize that my actions today have forever eliminated this possibility. If there can be any successful conclusion to this experiment it is that I admit how wrong I was to value you so little. I offer you my continued companionship in any capacity you wish to accept. I am filled with fear at the prospect that you do not wish for my company at all, but I cannot blame you and will not hinder your going._

_I have placed at your disposal all the data that I gathered. Please note that you have the remaining samples of solute, to be used or disposed of as you choose. You also possess the only copy of the formula in the world, save for the one I have stored in my mind palace. That copy, too, is at your disposal. At your behest I will delete it._  

 _Embarrassing as the events of today were, I will not delete them. Although my unsolicited physical affections toward you were encouraged by the pheromones, my regard for you did not materialize as a result of them. There is no chemical formula I could ever devise that could engender the love I have for you. I cannot regret that I held you in my arms, although I wish that the circumstances of our closeness had been far different. Suffice it to say that I will treasure the memory of our embrace to the end of my days._

_I am sorry for the grief I caused you._  

John’s mouth went dry, and he reread the last paragraph over and over again until he had the words memorized. 

The letter ended with a signature. 

 _Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

It was half-past three in the morning. John’s cup of tea sat stone-cold beside him. He had finished the clinical trial notes. In spite of his anger he had snickered over some of Sherlock’s commentary, rereading the choicest bits for his own amusement. It was quite obvious to him that the detective had begun suffering from the effects of the pheromone solution rather early in the day. He was sure that Sherlock was aware of the portrait he had painted of himself, and had not left out any of the data in the interests of full disclosure. 

John was no closer to a decision. Well, he had already made one choice. He’d chosen that road before he ever left the flat in a temper. He knew himself too well. He loved the life he had with Sherlock. He’d forgiven far worse from him before, and that was without such a candid admission of wrongdoing. Getting Sherlock to acknowledge that he had made an error at Baskerville had been a victory akin to outmaneuvering a wizened chess master. 

Speaking of maneuvering… 

John had an idea. He got up and rooted around his desk and then inside of his chair. After several tense minutes, he located the object and dove back into the pile of research notes. 

* * *

Sherlock noiselessly made his way back into the flat late in the morning. He had spent the night pacing the streets and alleyways of London, soothing himself by cataloging the city’s distinguishing features when they were overlaid with a summer dust. He stored the information of the unique summer sounds and smells in his Mind Palace. He was almost certain he would be able to distinguish the different streets of Westminster by smell alone – an interesting sensory deprivation experiment for another time. Perhaps he could enlist John to supervise him while he… 

John. 

No, this was no time for thinking about John and experiments. 

Steeling himself, he paced over to the kitchen table, expecting to see…anything, really. A pile of ash. Ripped up pieces of paper. Bullet holes marring the table. A weapon trained on him by a very angry ex-flatmate and ex-best friend. 

Instead, he saw that the envelope he had left for John was turned upside down. His letter had been refolded, not ungently, and been placed back inside. Two pages of his research notes were neatly placed beneath the envelope. There were red marks over portions of the data. 

Sherlock recognized his own description of John from the first page, but above a red caret mark an addition had been made: 

 _Conditions: JHW, single 38-year-old male, bisexual._ **^ desperately in love with genius flatmate. Feared that affection would never be reciprocated, relieved that this is not the case. Immensely, epically, annoyed to be unwitting participant in experiment, however, optimistic that this treatment will not occur in the future, given SH’s recalcitrant missive. This experiment or others like them won’t be repeated, will they, Sherlock?** _Medical doctor, former RAMC captain. Self-administered pheromone solute through use of typical grooming products_  

Sherlock felt his knees tremble. He pulled the second page out from under the first. It was the description of the final subject, himself, and his initial impressions. There was red writing on this page, too. 

 _Subject 7 – 12:19 pm, 221B Baker Street_

_34-year-old male, homosexual, “Sherlock Holmes,” known to JHW in a professional and personal capacity as a friend. Consulting detective, only one in the world._ **Entirely beloved by JHW – brilliant, irritating, unique, amazing. Handsome, with a spectrum of appealing physical attributes that would best be enumerated in an intimate setting. Repeatedly. Exclusively. And very appreciatively.**  

A voice broke into Sherlock's thoughts. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking of what I should do with all of this, and I believe I’ve come to a decision.” 

John ambled into the sitting room, having just descended the stairs from his space. 

“Yes?” Sherlock hadn’t intended for the reply to sound so shaky. He attributed it to his long silence the night before and he turned to watch his friend cross the room. 

“Yes, Sherlock. And I suppose that decision depends on you.” 

John’s hands were in the pockets of his jeans and he slowly stepped toward Sherlock. 

“Ah yes, how so?” Sherlock fought a losing battle against the flush rising at the back of his neck. John was coming closer to him now, and even though Sherlock could recognize no artificial pheromones, he was distinctly aware that his body’s chemistry recognized _something_. 

“Your answer to my question. What is it? Not the answer I want, not the answer you think I want, but the true answer.” 

Sherlock swallowed hard and met his friend’s eyes for the first time in nearly a day. 

“The answer…is yes and no.” 

John’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock held up a hand. 

“No, I will not use you in an experiment like this ever again. No, I will not treat you…like a thing, or a piece. But…I want to determine the effectiveness of something that has never been tried between us. I want to try things to gain experience with you. I want to make a study of you, a detailed investigation and analysis of every aspect of your nature. I want the clinical trial to be interminable. I want to be your test subject, John, and I want you to be mine. There are no others, there will be no others and the only data I want to collect is on you.” 

John was very close to him now, his eyes flicking from Sherlock’s mouth to his eyes and back. A pink tongue darted out over his bottom lip. 

Sherlock’s voice grew softer and he spoke rapidly.  
  
“I want to know everything about you, John. I want to know the colour of your skin underneath your clothes, I want to know if you have that shade of blond hair everywhere, I want to listen to your heart in your chest and in your wrist and in your thigh, I want to hear every pitch that comes out of your mouth as I touch you, I want to taste your-“ 

John grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down, crushing his lips to his mouth. 

* * *

There was so much eagerness, so much tension, that the kiss was awkward and blunt. Unfamiliar lips mashed against each other and teeth clashed, but their breathing was in concert. The men pulled apart and pressed their foreheads together. 

“You mean it?” John gasped out. 

“I don’t say or do anything I don’t mean,” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s back and brought a hand up to cradle his cheek. John saw his lips quiver and felt the heat in his face. 

“Then kiss me again.” 

This time the kiss began gently, sensually. John felt the hairs at the base of his spine rise up as the plush wetness of Sherlock’s lips met his own. John’s mouth tingled and almost stung, and he swept his tongue along Sherlock’s lips. His friend responded tentatively, almost shyly, and John wondered, not for the first time, exactly how much experience he had. John resolved to take his time over the snog to allow the other man to build up confidence. 

John kissed him chastely, with soft, sweet pecks. He lingered longer each time their mouths met, and finally, Sherlock parted his own lips. John smiled and curled his tongue inwards. He was rewarded with a low moan and a sudden stiffening of Sherlock’s body against him. The intensity of everything increased exponentially; Sherlock tightened his arms around John’s back and John ran his fingers up to twist in his hair. The two men pressed up against one another until there was no space left between them. A shudder went through each man as he felt his partner’s arousal. Tongues tangled around with rapidity and each man did his best to plumb the mouth of the other with the most erotic of caresses; twisting, licking, sucking, pressing, circling and claiming, the two men continued until they gasped for air. 

“Sherlock, what exactly…” 

“Don’t be boring.” 

“No, seriously, Sherlock, how much have you done before?” 

They leaned against one another, their brows touching. 

“Other experiments...”

John snorted, but listened to his explanation. 

“A handful of individuals – both giving and receiving. I needed the firsthand data, but kissing was not one of the practices that I studied. I see now that there is always something I miss.” 

John affectionately nuzzled his nose against a smooth cheekbone. He lowered his voice. 

“Practices, Sherlock?” 

“Hmm, yes.” 

John moved a hand to the top button of Sherlock’s shirt and twisted his fingers to undo it. 

“I would greatly enjoy hearing more about these ‘practices.’” 

Sherlock chuckled and put his mouth to John’s ear. Portions of John’s brain shut down in response to the proximity of Sherlock’s lips and the seductive tones of his voice. 

“As much as I would like to discuss these practices with you, I think the spirit of the moment dictates that I provide a demonstration.” 

John pressed his face against the exposed hollow of Sherlock’s throat and spoke into his skin. 

“A demonstration sounds…most appealing, Sherlock.” 

He nibbled gently at the area below Sherlock’s neck before circling the tip of his tongue in that notch. His friend arched his back and somewhat breathily replied, 

“Ah, John…was hoping you would feel that way.” 

And gracefully, with such finesse that he appeared to be executing a dance movement, Sherlock sank to his knees. John nearly fell over; nothing in his life or fantasies had ever prepared him for the sight of Sherlock Holmes on his knees with his nose buried in his zip. 

“Oh, oh...Sherlock…” 

“Problem?” 

“Nope, no problem! Just…hope you’re not expecting endurance here.” 

“Not to worry. Trial one of many, remember? For the rest of my life, in fact, if you’re amenable.” 

Their eyes met, and John cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands, sweeping his thumbs beneath his eyes. Those eyes were soft and luminous, and John smiled down at him, but his forehead crinkled with unspoken emotion. 

“Yes, you lunatic. I’m yours always.” 

Sherlock smiled back at him and turned his attention to his jeans fastening. He undid the top button and eased down the zipper teeth. John pulled up his shirt and vest to make the task easier (and to watch later, God, yes) and Sherlock just directed him to take them off completely. 

“Ergnf,” said John as his jeans were peeled down. Long fingers crawled back up his thighs and slipped teasingly under the front bottom band of his pants. Sherlock mouthed around his bollocks and chuckled. 

“Never thought I’d actually see you in these…never dared to hope.” 

John dragged himself back to some sort of coherence and joined in the laughter. 

“Glad you approve, you nosy bastard. Red’s a tricky colour to wear, but when it’s pants, who cares?” 

“Not nosy, observant. We do live together, as I hope you’ve deduced.” 

“Yep, caught on to that, thank _God_ we do,” John breathed out. Sherlock had just run his tongue over his cotton-covered cock. He repeated the movement several times and John twitched when he felt the moisture seep through his pants. _Good Lord_ but it had been a while since he had had a blowjob. The voice was speaking to him again, right up against him, and John was increasingly hard-put to reply intelligently. 

* * *

“Hmm, you’re magnificent, John.” 

And he really was. The increasingly damp pants clung to his erection, outlining it in thrilling detail. There was the shaft and the head – Sherlock paused in his admiration to lick along the white bottom band, lifting it up with his tongue, leaving a stripe of wetness at the top of John’s thigh. 

Sherlock ran a hand behind John, squeezing his arse cheek and listening to the gorgeous murmur that rose up from his throat. He curved the tips of four fingers into his crack and squeezed again – John arced up to his mouth, pressing his cock to Sherlock’s lips. Smiling broadly, Sherlock snaked the hand in front of John and the one behind to the top of his briefs and he pulled them down, finally freeing John’s cock. 

He held it from underneath, gauging the weight. It was appealingly heavy in his hands, thick and uncut. Long as the national average but the width had definite promise.

“John, what a lovely specimen.” 

“Guh.” 

Excellent, John had become inarticulate. His replies from now on would be wonderfully candid. Mentally, Sherlock opened up a new folder in the drive labeled “JHW sexual responses.” Sherlock lipped around the shiny glans and felt John’s gluteal muscles tense in his hand as he took the tip into his mouth. John cried out sharply as Sherlock licked gently over his slit. John tasted so clean, like salty rain in the country smelled. He felt incredible over Sherlock’s tongue, smooth and hot, and, because he was wider than previous experiments, he necessitated the complete rounding out of his lips. Sherlock sucked sloppily down his shaft, and the sensation of John touching every bit of his lips went straight to Sherlock’s own cock in a way he had never thought possible. The science of arousal…Sherlock had never experienced it with such intensity before. The previous experiments could now be categorized as simple stimulus/response trials. But at least the knowledge gained could now be put into practice. 

Sherlock pushed his head down and let the tip of John’s cock strike the back of his throat. 

“Oh! Oh, my God, yes, fuck yes!” 

That pornographic audio demanded its own back room in the equivalent of the John Watson movie store in Sherlock’s Mind Palace. John nearly sagged against Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock wanted to give him _absolutely_ _everything_ and refused to hold back anymore. All his walls were crumbling down and he lifted up to tear the remaining bricks away. 

He gripped John’s hands and put them on top his own head. John cried out in surrender. 

“Sherlock, you’re …yes, oh, yes!” 

John tenderly wound his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock moaned into his touch. John pulled his head back so that Sherlock almost came off his cock. He looked down into Sherlock’s eyes and saw his smile of approval there. 

“You’re everything,” John whispered. Sherlock shut his eyes slowly and opened them again, returning John’s open gaze of adoration. John shuddered and pushed slowly up into his mouth. Sherlock could feel him resisting the impulse toward speed so he gripped John’s arse and pulled him forward, forcing his cock deep into his mouth. Sherlock hummed around him. 

John cried out again and his fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Okay, okay…I’ll fuck your mouth you impatient prick, since that’s what you want so much!” 

Sherlock laughed and grunted happily when John finally thrust into his mouth with more force. Sherlock dropped his jaw further, giving John the freedom he needed to pump into him. John jerked his hips rhythmically and the sensual nature of his movements alone sent a white fog up through Sherlock’s brain. The noises John made now were the best kind of begging; short, low, wordless pleas for release. Sherlock moved a hand to his own cock and keened from his chest. John hoarsely called out to him. 

“Ngh, Sherlock, close!” 

Sherlock worked with his thrusts and, when John’s hands grew slack around him, he continued to bob up and down on him. As John jerked in his mouth, Sherlock pushed down onto him again and swallowed around him. John stilled at the back of throat and pulsed. Every cry that rang in Sherlock’s ears was given a numeric designation for ready playback in the future. 

* * *

John collapsed on his knees in front of his flatmate-turned-lover, who was now sitting on his heels. Sherlock had just finished rolling down his own trousers and pants. 

“Seriously, Sherlock, you will be the death of me. That was, hands down, the best blowjob I have ever had. ” 

He tried to move Sherlock’s hand away from his cock, where he had frantically begun to pull himself off. 

“C’mon, let me? I’ve been told I’m skilled – I know how to deep throat, too.” 

Sherlock tucked his reddened face down (his current pose was remarkably similar to the one from the day before) and muttered, 

“Too close, going to…go off anytime…” 

John grinned at his friend’s arousal, elated at his own good fortune. At long last he was in a relationship with the love of his life and he was also about to witness something remarkable – Sherlock Holmes losing control. 

“Mmm, Sherlock, you gorgeous thing, I have to see you this time. I was too angry the other day, but you know I was interested, don’t you?” 

His friend let out a high, short hum without parting his lips. He raised the back of his other hand to his mouth and bit into it. John scooted around to kneel beside him and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. He shuddered and sighed; John pulled the hand away from his lips and squeezed it to his chest. 

“No, no…you’ll let me hear you this time. This time I’m going to watch you fall apart, going to feel you…feel you shake as it takes you. When you come I’ll be holding you, I’ll be looking at your face like you looked at mine, you can’t hold back now. You can feel it, can’t you, rising up through you? Look at me, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s turned his head up toward John and his eyes snapped open. 

“John,” he said, and his expression was panicked, desperate. 

“It’s ok, Sherlock. I’ve got you.” 

“John, I -“ 

“So beautiful, Sherlock, you’re so beautiful, that’s it, let go for me-“ 

He trembled in John’s arms and his eyes lost focus just before they squeezed tightly shut. An expression of surprise and wonder crossed his face and he fell against John as he pulsed out over his hand.

“John, J-” 

As he shook, John cradled him with one arm and pushed his damp fringe off his forehead with his other hand. When the tremors finally stopped, Sherlock unbent his legs and sprawled onto the rug gracelessly. A corner of John’s mouth quirked up in amusement, but when Sherlock tugged him down, he joined his friend in repose on the floor. 

* * *

Somewhat later they made it to the sofa, which was much more comfortable than the floor. They weren’t exactly young anymore so cushioning was a definite plus. John was sitting up against a corner; Sherlock had his back pressed to his shoulder and his absurdly long legs were stretched out. His eyes were closed but John knew he wasn’t asleep. 

“You haven’t asked what I intended to do about the pheromones,” John said. 

“I thought it was clear that I had designated that responsibility to you.” 

The eyes remained shut. John sighed. 

“Well, it’s not that easy, is it? It’s terrifying, that a chemical solution can have that much power. It’s dangerous, almost more so than the aggression pheromones. Well, you were there, you saw.” 

“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock murmured. 

“Still…it seems wrong to destroy something so brilliant. Making you delete that would be like…cutting out a part of you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he leaned his head back to stare at John. 

“John,” he said, “I would do this for you. I owe you this in apology.” 

John swept a hand over his forehead and petted his hair. Sherlock leaned into the caress and John smiled down at his eager movement. 

“I’ve already accepted your apology. I don’t need reparations, as long as your answer from before was genuine.”

Sherlock clasped his hand. 

“It was.” 

“Then I think my decision stands. Who’s the best, most honest solicitor you know? I think we’ll need to seek some legal advice on how to protect your formula from misuse.” 

“It belongs to both of us now, John.” 

“Us?” John asked. 

“Yes.” 

“I like the sound of that. Us.” 

Sherlock grinned up at him and nodded. 

“Us,” he repeated, linking his fingers with John’s. 

* * *

Hours later, John heard a distant chirp. 

“John, would you get that? I left it in my trousers,” Sherlock was sitting at the table, stirring a steaming red liquid. 

“I’m farther away from them than you are, you great idiot,” John muttered as he wandered to the hamper. He located the phone and gulped when he caught sight of the profanity-riddled text message. He walked back to the kitchen slowly, holding the mobile out in front of him. 

“Sherlock, exactly how were you planning to explain the experiment to Greg?”

**Author's Note:**

> This story now has a companion piece called "Triggered Signals" wherein the dubious nature of the interaction between Lestrade and Sally is properly resolved. The foul text message to Sherlock is also displayed in its entirety. Both stories are part of the completed series entitled "All About Chemistry."
> 
> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
